Sri Lanka’s public service is once again engulfed in controversy, as disputes surrounding senior civil servants expose a deeper, long-running crisis at the heart of the state. The recent controversy involving Attorney General and President’s Counsel Parinda Ranasinghe, alongside the suspension of Deputy Secretary General of Parliament Chaminda Kularatne, has reignited public debate over political interference, institutional independence, and the vulnerability of those occupying the highest offices of governance. These incidents are not isolated. They are the latest manifestations of a system in which senior public positions are constantly shaken, contested, and reshuffled, while others wait in the wings for their turn.
The contrast with Sri Lanka’s colonial-era public service is stark. Under British rule, the civil service was widely regarded as professional, direct, and largely insulated from partisan politics. British civil servants exercised authority with a degree of independence that, even today, many view with reluctant admiration. Yet soon after independence, that model began to erode. By the 1950s, the public service had entered an era of systematic partisanship, where loyalty to political power increasingly outweighed professional integrity.
This shift was evident during the tenure of Prime Minister S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike. Bradman Weerakoon, his former Secretary, recorded how Bandaranaike initially resisted demands from party loyalists to rapidly reshuffle administrative officials. Bandaranaike believed that most civil servants, even without overt political allegiance, would serve the new leadership competently. His restraint disappointed party followers, who expected immediate changes to secure ideological control. That moment marked an early tension between political expediency and administrative independence, a tension that has never been resolved.
Seventy years later, in 2026, the dilemma remains unchanged. Despite repeated promises of an independent public service in election manifestos, successive governments have prioritized appeasing party headquarters and loyalists over safeguarding institutional autonomy. Leaders who attempt to govern without satisfying these political demands often discover, sometimes too late, that their authority is constrained by the very civil servants they mistrusted. Bandaranaike himself ultimately resigned, caught between party pressures and administrative realities.
The precedent of removing senior officials following a change in government was firmly established during Bandaranaike’s era. Park Nadesan, then Prime Minister’s Secretary, was eased out before his scheduled retirement through special privileges when it became clear he could not serve the new leadership comfortably. This practice of retiring, sidelining, or replacing top officials after electoral change would become an enduring feature of Sri Lankan governance.
The pattern intensified over time. In 1962, Sirimavo Bandaranaike’s government sent large numbers of senior army and police officers on compulsory leave over allegations of conspiracy. In 1977, J.R. Jayewardene’s government faced international embarrassment after moving against Chief Justice Neville Samarakoon, a figure initially expected to be compliant. Instead, Samarakoon proved fiercely independent, openly criticizing the government’s attempts to exploit legal loopholes and its tolerance of political violence.
The confrontation reached a breaking point after a violent attack by ruling-party supporters on women, including activist Vivian Gunawardena, during a Women’s Day meeting. The perpetrators were imprisoned by the courts, triggering retaliation against the judiciary, including stone-throwing at judges’ homes. The government seized its opportunity when Chief Justice Samarakoon delivered a speech at a private educational institution, sharply criticizing government policies, economic mismanagement, and political interference in judicial recruitment.
Samarakoon’s speech laid bare systemic decay. He described how unqualified applicants were pushed into judicial vacancies through a politicized Job Bank, often backed by letters from Members of Parliament. He exposed the crushing cost-of-living crisis and challenged the government’s claims of austerity, including remarks about the President’s salary and privileges. Within days, ruling party MPs demanded action, branding the speech political and subversive. An impeachment motion followed, ending only when Samarakoon chose to retire, leaving behind a legacy of courage and a government stained by the episode.
The lessons of that crisis were never fully absorbed. Subsequent decades produced similar controversies, including disputes over the appointment of Parinda Ranasinghe following the retirement of Chief Justice S. Sharvananda in 1988. Despite seniority and broad judicial support for Justice R.A.S. Wanasundara, known for his independence and Sinhala nationalist convictions, political authorities bypassed him. Ranasinghe reportedly accepted the position reluctantly, under pressure, a decision that continues to echo as he now faces controversy in the role of Attorney General.
These episodes reveal a congenital weakness in Sri Lankan governance: the inability of governments to coexist with independent officials at the apex of the public service. Inspectors General of Police, Chief Justices, Auditors General, Election Commissioners, and Attorneys General have repeatedly been removed, forced to resign, or interdicted on contested grounds. Each removal is justified as necessary; each weakens the institutional spine of the state.
The consequences are profound. If the Attorney General prosecutes cases according to presidential preference, the rule of law collapses. If the Auditor General audits according to political instruction, financial oversight becomes meaningless. If the police enforce the law selectively, a police state emerges. Democracies are not protected by obedient officials, but by independent ones empowered to resist pressure, even at personal cost.
Chief Justice Samarakoon spoke openly about the pressures he faced. Many who followed him into forced retirement or dismissal chose silence, returning home without public protest. Had they spoken, the depth of political coercion might have been even more disturbing. Each departure of an honest official may appear a victory for those in power, but it represents a devastating loss for society.
Perhaps most troubling is the silence that surrounds these events. The marginalization of principled public servants rarely provokes sustained public outrage. As Sri Lanka confronts renewed institutional turmoil, the question is not merely who holds office, but whether the country is willing to defend the idea of an independent public service at all. Without that commitment, accountability becomes a slogan, democracy a performance, and governance an exercise in controlled obedience rather than public trust.
